Loss and gain

On that morning I ingested the moon.

The orb swilled around my stomach streaming light out of my mouth until the grating weight of it ground me to a halt

on Glody’s now pitch black patio.

When we were little

Akosua told me the seeds we swallow would grow in the belly,

so I feel citrus tree sprouting from a crater,

it bushy leaves emerging from my scalp, yellow fruit

intertwining with my hair,

heaving down my back.

Water is life and we pumped it out of cracked earth that summer rinsing

the dust and the scions of hardship of of our faces.

Yellow fruit and green leafy branched were trailing across the ground by then, picking up crushed cigarette packets and rusted bottle caps; abandoned flyers and the carrion of collapsing minds from along the pavement. I remember how I walked that morning, dragging a rattling crown of cascading debris.

“You good?” questioning eyes silently ask.

Maybe I should tell them that a foreign moon is rolling from left to right inside of me or that the floodlight in my mouth has lit a path into tomorrow.

I bow my head and a robin lands on the twig that has fallen across my face. I brush it over my shoulder and ignore them all.

When you show the moon to a child it only sees your finger.


When you show the moon to a child it only sees your finger.

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